


here i am leaving you clues

by romantiqs



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Angst, College AU i guess, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Miscommunication, Mutual Pining, No clown because fuck that guy, Richie's internal monologue, eventually that is, ill add more when there is stuff to tag if it calls for it, its movie canon timeline but that is essentially all, terrible use of pop culture, this is just a big ugly ode to Richard Siken and parachutes by Coldplay I have no excuses
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-29
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:40:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23906311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romantiqs/pseuds/romantiqs
Summary: Richie supposes it was kind of his fault in the first place. He’d put too much faith into the idea that they were always going to be as close as they were; that Eddie was a guaranteed thing. Which was really fucking stupid of him, to expect things from Eddie and just assume he’d want them too.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 1
Kudos: 13





	here i am leaving you clues

** Richie Tozier **

** December 1996 **

** New York City, New York **

Eddie knocks on the door at 5.30pm, just like he said he would at Christmas. Richie is hardly surprised. Of the many things Richie knew him to be, punctual is one of them; underlined and bolded on Richie’s mental note of ‘Who Eddie Kaspbrak Is’. Richie likes to think it’s full of the kind of things one would put on a missing poster. (And then some, though he's not sure some of his information is up to date.)

Edward Kaspbrak; 5’5; freshly 20 years old; will answer to ‘Eds’ but might kill you in the process; brown hair and these ridiculous puppy dog eyes; does not like being pet. (Richie has tried.)

Richie’s sweaty hand slips on the doorknob just a little as he opens the door to reveal all 165cm of Eddie, whose face wears a carefully constructed mask of calmness (Richie supposes Eddie can see the same on his own, though less composed,) and the baby blue Queen sweatshirt Richie had gifted him for Christmas just a few days before. He’s got the sleeves folded up because it was two sizes too big and the shoulder seam is partway down his upper arm. (But Richie just had to get it for him when he’d found it at Goodwill when he’d been looking for a jacket for his Marty McFly costume in October. Stan had thought it was stupid when Richie had brought it back to the apartment because it wasn’t practical for it to be that fucking big. But Stan hadn’t seen the way Eddie used to sing ‘Liar’ from the passenger seat in high school – like he was performing for Madison Square Garden – rather than for the humble audience of one, very amused, Richie Tozier.) 

The thing is, he’s standing in front of him and Richie doesn’t know how to proceed from here; they haven’t spoken since Christmas. They haven’t been alone together since June. Not for any particular reason other than their schedules, though maybe it would be better if there had been. Some definitive fight for Richie to accredit his turmoil to. 

Eddie’s got his duffle bag slung over one shoulder and Richie’s wildly beating heart clutched in his fists. 

“So,” Eddie says slowly, looking at Richie intently, “Are you gonna fucking let me in?”

Richie barks out something that is a bastardised hybrid of a cough and a laugh before ignoring his better judgement and letting his reflexes take the wheel, “Why of course sir!”

The butler, safe enough he supposes. He’s mildly impressed with himself given that he is likely to be sick any moment. He hasn’t spoken to Eddie since Christmas and here he is, wearing the gift Richie gave him. What the fuck is he supposed to make of that? 

Maybe nothing at all. But it’s Eddie, it’s never been nothing with Eddie. 

“You okay Rich?” Eddie asks softly, and Richie really wishes he hadn’t noticed the way Eddie’s hand moved just a little at his side as if he were going to reach out to him but resisted. 

“Yeah,” Richie says quickly, but unfortunately for his credibility, it comes out in a way that lilts upward at the end like a question. 

Eddie hums, drawing out the sound as he furrows his brows, “Go wash your face man. You’re green and I don’t want you to throw up on me.” 

The ‘again,’ is silent. Confirmation enough that they aren’t going to talk about the elephant in the room. Which is just fine with Richie thank you very much. 

Richie does as he’s told and ignores the way the stupid pictures of Madonna (which he’d taped to the mirror to piss off Stan, who’d had Like a Virgin stuck in his head,) watch him judgementally as he attempts to psych himself up in the mirror.

It’s just Eddie.

Eddie, who was staying with Richie in his and Stan’s apartment for a week or so because Eddie’s dorm building was closed for maintenance until college was back in session. Eddie who Richie didn’t know how to hold a conversation with anymore. Eddie, whose lap he had thrown up on during their gift exchange when he’d unwrapped his stupid sweater and the way he’d smiled had just been too fucking much for him to deal with for some reason. 

Richie had promptly excused himself and driven home with frustrated tears stinging his eyes only to cry down the phone to a very exasperated Stan who had no idea what to do with him. Stan was usually very good at helping Richie to calm down; a gentle hand rubbing circles in his back, a reasoning voice in his ear that had Richie believing that everything was, in fact, going to be okay. 

But with Stan having been summoned back to Derry for Hanukkah and with Richie so worked up he could hardly speak, Stan had resorted to gently shushing Richie down the line, reminding him that he was going to be okay until Richie had exhausted himself enough to fall into a fitful sleep.

Even all the way from Maine Stanley Uris had found a way to get Richie’s post-cry McDonald’s’ breakfast to him. Beverly had knocked on the door when the time had just passed ten, brown paper bag nestled under her arm. 

Richie had not been surprised to see her. He was equally unsurprised when a string of questions accompanied his three hash browns and sausage and egg McMuffin. If it had been Ben, or even Mike, who had come asking Richie would have told them he’d just felt sick. They wouldn’t have believed him; he knew this, he wasn’t actually stupid. (He liked to think he knew at least a handful of things.) But they weren’t likely to have pushed for a real answer. 

Beverly Marsh, however, was in possession of an iron will and a disturbing amount of patience when she chose to employ it. But Richie hadn’t been able to answer her questions because he simply didn’t know. 

Beverly had believed him without much convincing, which was possibly what disturbed Richie the most. 

When he reemerges from the bathroom, Richie finds Eddie sitting on the couch. His back is as straight as a board and he’s staring fixedly at the back to the future poster above the TV. 

It’s all too polite. 

God Richie hates it. 

** Eddie Kaspbrak **

** March 1992 **

** Derry, Maine **

It’s only when he’s leaning his bike against Richie’s front stairs that Eddie thinks he may be kind of an idiot. Maybe a little selfish. 

Definitely a little selfish, but who isn’t, right? 

So it’s fine. 

He walks up the stairs and knocks twice on the door and waits; awfully wrapped gifts in a Freese’s bag hidden behind his back with his free hand. 

Which is all well and good until there’s a hand on his shoulder and a familiar voice in his ear, “Whatchu doing Eds?” 

He swats at Richie’s face as he whirls around, rolling his shoulder reflexively. 

“I really hate it when you get all up in my neck Rich,” Eddie feels the bag bump against his knee and feels his heart thud dully in his chest. Because he’s 15 and he’s been planning this for weeks and it’s already not happening how he wanted and right now on the Tozier’s front porch it feels something close to a disaster in the limited world of Eddie Kaspbrak as it exists in this moment.

“You’ll never know the joys of a hickey with that attitude,” Richie grins, leaning down into Eddie’s space just a little too close for comfort. 

With his smile cleaving his face in half, his stupid Pac-Man shirt with the hole in the collar and his too-long limbs Eddie finds him just a little hard to look at straight on. He kicks his shin gently but lets Richie fold him into his arms when he pulls him forward anyways, even with how it leaves his face uncomfortably smashed into his chest because Richie shot up just a little too much for this to work. 

“Happy Birthday again,” he mumbles.

Richie pinches Eddie’s side as he pulls away, “I got my license,” he announces. 

Mind you Eddie would never be quick to admit it, but he notes with fondness the way Richie tries to mask his excitement; the way his eyes brighten; the way he shifts his feet; the way he’s pinching his wrist. 

“Is that why you were whisked away from Bill’s right after cake?” Eddie implores like he didn’t know. Like he hadn’t already extracted that detail from Maggie last week over cornflakes while Richie was still asleep upstairs. Like he hadn’t set an alarm on his watch for 6.40am and tried his very hardest to sleep with his hand beside his head just to catch her before she left for work. 

Eddie has an intricate, delicate love language and he knows this, is a little bit embarrassed about it and he’s desperately trying to convey something to Richie today without having to use words. Because words are a little bit too on the nose sometimes and he’s not quite ready to face the enormity of this thing that sits right behind his ribcage, growing and spreading as it has been for a while now. 

“Yeah, good old Wenty had brought my bike with them and sent my sorry ass on my way home as soon as it was a done deal though. Isn’t that a bit rough? Could have let me drive the Toziermobile home at least” Richie chuckles warmly, stepping back from Eddie to boost himself up to perch on the railing. Eddie takes that as an opportunity to collapse into the chair beside the door and it’s good. He’s starting to feel a little lightheaded because he knows where Richie’s parents are and he needs them to be here instead, and quickly. 

“They don't trust you enough,” Eddie teases, breathing through his nose after. Hoping Richie doesn’t notice how stiffly he’s sitting on the edge of the seat. 

Richie pouts before whimpering like a puppy and Eddie wishes he hated him, wishes he didn’t want to do that stupid pinch-the-cheek-”cutecutecute” bullshit Richie used to and mean it.

“You are an idiot,” he says instead, with a carefully positioned deadpan face and a racing heart.

“Ah, but you’re still here!” 

Eddie sputters out a laugh then, pure and genuine and very much against his will. 

“Mickey Mouse Richie? What the fuck?” 

Richie laughs too then and silhouetted by the afternoon light from this angle and Eddie ignores the way that makes his chest ache, pretends he doesn’t know what that means; pretends it isn’t ridiculously familiar; isn’t ingrained into his daily routine. (Wake up, brush your teeth, get dressed, be infuriatingly affected by the mere existence of your best friend, sleep and repeat). 

“I think we should rebrand! Fuck the loser thing because I for one, am too devastatingly cool for such a demeaning label. It undersells me” 

“And instead we’re what? The Mickey Mouse Club?” 

“Exactly! M-I-C-K-E-Y, M-O-U-S-E! And, you, my darling, are the tiny little mouse we all worship. Much better, methinks!” Richie declares, launching himself down to tickle Eddie’s sides before he can even come up with a way to do anything but flush and look thoroughly disgruntled. 

Acting as both a blessing and a curse, this is the moment Maggie and Wentworth pull into the driveway in a pickup that is very much not the family station wagon.

And it’s ugly. 

It’s so fucking ugly.

“Holy fuck!” Richie yells after he’s taken it all in enough to process what’s happening here. 

He’s wearing the biggest smile Eddie’s ever seen on him and just a little part of him, tucked away and bitter wishes he could have triggered it. Mostly he just hopes he gets to see it again. 

“Happy Birthday Richard!” Maggie calls out, hands cupped her mouth. Eddie is quick to notice that she is also looking a little nervous and he finds that he loves her a lot. For trying her hardest with Richie and for striving to do her best by Eddie too. 

Richie barrels towards her, almost knocks her over with the way he throws himself into her arms. Wentworth moves to pat Richie on his back and says something that Eddie is just out of reach of hearing.

“Come on Eds!” Richie calls over his mother’s when they move out of the embrace. 

“Have him home by ten,” Wentworth instructs with a smile, clapping Eddie on the shoulder as they pass.

It’s almost ridiculously effortless the way Richie drives through the back streets; as if the driver’s seat is where he feels the most comfortable. 

Here’s the feeling again, ever-present in Eddie’s chest; warm yet still sinister. It’s flaring up because he is very, very aware - from years of observance - that Richie has this carefully constructed mask of feigned confidence. He’s not wearing it now. Instead, his shoulders are loose and there’s this stupid dopey smile sitting on his lips and it leaves Eddie feeling vulnerable and possibly a touch unhinged. 

Which he thinks is more than a little ridiculous.

“Hey Rich,” Eddie manages to get out after a deep breath. 

“Yes, honeybun?” Richie asks as he flicks the indicator on with his pinky and when he glances at Eddie for just a flicker of a moment, Eddie watches the way his face quickly contorts into a frown. 

“What the fuck Eds are you okay?” Richie asks, but his eyes are back on the road now and he pulls off onto the grass. 

He pulls on the hand break with one hand as he unbuckles himself with the other, despite Eddie’s weak protestation that he is in fact, perfectly fine.

“You are shaking like a leaf you little liar you,” Richie jests softly, breaking down into laughter when Eddie swats away his outstretched hand. 

“I am fine, just need to tell you something,” Eddie insists and bites his lip when Richie cocks his head to the side and draws his eyebrows together. 

Eddie very much feels like backing out now, feels something sitting heavy and acidic in the pit of his stomach. Richie’s told him he doesn’t like celebrating his birthday, doesn’t like the strange kind of polite, focused attention associated with it. 

Anyone who knew of Richie Tozier might immediately repudiate that statement and call him a hypocrite. Eddie liked to think he knew Richie better than that, knew that he really only sought attention from people he desperately wanted to feel closer to, people he wanted to look at him and want to be closer to him in return. Sure, Eddie would be the first to admit that Richie drove him absolutely crazy sometimes; with his insistent teasing and his need to always be closer than necessary. It could very easily leave him antsy and agitated if he didn’t feel particularly up to entertain it. However, he knew Richie’s heart could very well serve as the textbook example of being in the right place, so he would play into it only enough to gently signal to Richie that it was okay. A delicate and well-rehearsed pas de deux. 

Eddie did his very best not to think too hard about why Richie had him specially pinned as his main target for torment. Mostly this was to prevent the alien sort of lightheadedness Eddie was left with when he did think about it for too long.

“I have something for you,” Eddie says as slowly as he can manage and ignores the way his voice still manages to shake. 

He feels small, reduced to the grimy feeling of selfishness once again and he hates it. He feels compressed and claustrophobic and sits in the passenger seat of the cabin of Richie’s new second-hand car and he hates it. He feels so much and hates it. Hates all of it. 

He Doesn’t hate Richie.

He desperately doesn’t want Richie to hate him. 

Richie is watching him, his gaze even and steady. Has been watching him this whole time. He’s not going to say anything, Eddie realises after a beat where all that mingles in the air between them is their breathing and the crooning of Eric Martin from the radio, just slightly marred by static. 

_ (I’m the one who wants to be with you _

_ Deep inside I hope you feel it too) _

“Rich, I feel kind of awful about it though,” Eddie admits in something just above a whisper as he drops his head into his hands, “you probably don’t want it and it was shitty of me to do this because I know better-”

“I am going to cut you off there sir,” Richie announces in the fucking Irish cop voice. Eddie has never been closer to dissolving into hysterics until Richie speaks again, in his regular voice, “I don’t want you apologizing to me, it’s fucking weird man.”

The air is thick between them now and Eddie feels a little helpless so he hands Richie the bag and resists the temptation to screw his eyes shut. 

_ (So come on baby, come on over  _

_ Let me be the one to show you) _

“This is the most boring title I have ever seen on a mixtape Eddie Spaghetti. I am thoroughly disappointed.”

Eddie collapses back against the seat and groans. 

“I have concluded I am going to play it immediately and you have to sing every word to repent for your sins.”

** Richie Tozier **

** December 1996 **

** New York City, New York **

The Tv is on now; a shitty second-hand unit Stan had come across at the thrift store a few months ago when he’d been dragged along by Richie to go prop-hunting for one of Richie’s drama assignments.

Richie knows a fair bit about space and how he’s supposed to manipulate it to give an effective performance. But his apartment - which is not the roomiest by a long shot, this is New York and they’re in college - feels impossibly small right now, with Eddie still sitting silently as a Seinfeld rerun casts strange colours over his face. 

If it were anyone else, Richie would be able to masquerade as someone a little braver than he really is. He’s been doing that all through college; at parties, at job interviews and that time he disputed his grade with a professor.

Here’s the thing though, he’d never been able to pull that shit with Eddie. It used to piss him off a little when they were in high school and he was still fine-tuning it. He’d be desperately trying to push sell this idea of himself and most of the time it worked; even on Bill. But never on Eddie, who could see straight through it and would not hesitate even a moment to call Richie out on his shit. It was a little unsettling; made him feel antsy and squirmish; he didn’t like feeling seen like that. It was all too intimate, especially because it was Eddie.

It used to grind his gears, but some part of him misses it; misses everything with Eddie. 

He’s right here and it's just the two of them, yet Richie still misses him terribly because he doesn’t have him. Not really; not in the selfish all-consuming way he wants to have him. The way he always has. He wonders not for the first time if Eddie ever knew that or if that was the one obvious truth he kept just well enough hidden or Eddie simply didn't want to know so he chose not to notice. 

It’s too fucking cold in this apartment. 

“Our heating shit itself last week,” Richie announces for no reason at all and immediately cringes and pinches the skin between his thumb and pointer finger.

“Good to know,” Eddie returns without turning around, “Am I sleeping in Stan’s room?”

If that isn’t a loaded question Richie doesn’t know what is. 

** Eddie Kaspbrak **

** November 1992 **

** Derry, Maine **

He couldn’t pinpoint when it started; he feels like he should remember the first time they slept entangled like this, but he doesn’t. 

What Eddie does know, is that he has done something terrible, something really, really shitty. It leaves him with this awful heavy feeling like he's suffocating. He’s laying here, Richie warm and snoring softly behind him and he feels like he might just be the worst person in the world. It’s all because he’s sick and he’s tricked Richie into giving him a little taste of what he wants. 

He’s sick because he loves Richie and he so desperately craves for Richie to love him back.

And there is something very, very wrong with a boy who loves boys.

He knows this because he’s heard it explained to be a sin at church when he goes with his mother; because they say it without really saying it on the news; because he’s had it violently drilled into him by the bullies at school. Which is probably why he took so long to admit to himself what he is; a disappointment to God and his mother. And, possibly worse, everything he’s ever been taunted about; everything he wanted to prove wrong. He’s gay. 

He’s always been aware of how he feels about Richie; this strange incessant need to always be close, closer and closer still, no matter what bullshit he’s spewing. It was ironic - just a little bit, Eddie thought - that Richie was regarded as the biggest attention whore you were likely to meet in your lifetime, yet here Eddie was showing him up with his own colossal desire to be the focal point of Richie’s admiration in the same way it seemed that the boy wanted the whole world’s. It didn’t make Eddie feel any better about the whole thing that really, Richie kind of did pay the most attention to Eddie, but usually felt as if it was only part of some sort of gag. 

The dynamic shifted just a little when they were alone, with no one to keep up appearances for, if only in the fact that Richie was less of a pest. Eddie found that there was a bittersweetness in the fact that they’d been spending a lot more time alone together in recent years because no matter what, the fact did not change that he wanted to be close, closer and closer still and he was always a little on edge. Because the universe had a vendetta against him specifically, the frequency of them hanging out alone had been on an insane upwards trajectory in the months since Richie’s birthday. (Eddie blamed it on the car. He was honestly weirdly fond of the shitbox.)

He only figured out what it all meant when he and Richie had made a solo trip to Moosehead Lake for the day in September and he’d watched the sunrise through the windscreen as they left Derry. At one point Richie had been a ridiculously awful impression of the guitar solo in Don’t Stop and Eddie had lent over to smack him (because for fuck's  _ sake Richie this is one of my favourite songs and you know that, I made this fucking mixtape _ ) and Richie had just fucking howled with laughter. (“Aw Eds I'm sorry; t’s your little sourpuss face! It gets me every time!”) But Eddie wasn't even listening to Richie’s shit, too distracted by the proclamation of “All I want is to see you smile,” from the tinny speakers, because yeah; it was all he wanted. And it felt like a punch in the gut. 

These nights are different altogether. This fragile pre-dawn time where reality seems to find somewhere else to reside for a handful of sacred hours. 

It’s in this time where Eddie gets to lay here with his back to Richie’s chest; Richie’s arms holding him close and their fingers interlocked; making out Richie’s heartbeat with his thumb pressed to pulse point in his wrist as he does his absolute best to ignore the incessant, aching throb of his own in his chest. Eddie gets to pretend that this is something real and tangible that he gets to keep once the sun comes up. 

The worst part of it for him is that it isn’t an accident that they sleep like this. It isn’t that Richie pulls him closer in his sleep. It’s a very conscious slotting of their bodies together before anyone is even yawning most of the time. They talk during and after the matter – even argue about whose pinkie is on the outside of their handhold – and they keep talking until eventually one of them – usually Richie – slips into slumber. But never about whatever the fuck they’re doing.

So, Richie is very much aware of what’s going on. What he doesn’t know is how it makes Eddie feel and Eddie is too selfish to stop him. Eddie knows full well that Richie sleeps over at Stan’s plenty and that Stan would probably rather shave his head than cuddle with Richie. But Stan is also not gay, at least not that Eddie knows of. 

Eddie likes to think he has plenty of friends; he gets along with most of their year. He definitely has more best friends than a lot of people, so he’s never felt isolated in the way he does now. 

Eddie will be sixteen when he wakes up; it might be his birthday already, he doesn’t have a clue what time is. But for now, he is fifteen and this moment here in his childhood bedroom feels like it’s going to stretch into forever and he’ll never make it to sixteen because he can’t fucking fall asleep. For now, he is fifteen and he’s doing his absolute best not to let the way he’s shaking dissolve into the sobs that sit menacingly in his throat. 

** Richie Tozier **

** December 1996 **

** New York City, New York **

It’s not like he hasn’t been seeing Eddie at all. Of course, Richie has seen him. 

The seven of them didn't spend their senior year carefully orchestrating a collective move to the East Coast to not fucking see each other. It’s just that he doesn’t see Eddie alone and it’s gone on too long like this - whatever this strange, almost tactical avoidance they’ve got going on is - to just call him or whatever. It didn’t work like that for them. Richie couldn’t imagine doing the whole small talk thing with Eddie as much as he could imagine enjoying the shitty jazz music Stan supposedly needed to focus. (The walls were only so thin in this apartment and Richie could only withstand so much trumpet before he felt like he was going to implode.)

Richie supposes it was kind of his fault in the first place. He’d put too much faith into the idea that they were always going to be as close as they were; that Eddie was a guaranteed thing. Which was really fucking stupid of him, to expect things from Eddie and just assume he’d want them too.

He kind of contradicted himself with that one; a sort of catch-22 scenario. Richie had always believed that Eddie was meant to be a part of something bigger than what Derry, or even Maine actually, had to offer. Not because Eddie was destined to be a film star or some shit; he couldn’t act for shit. (Seriously, Richie used to make him read lines with him for his Drama class in high school and it was painful.) It was just to Richie, it had always felt as if there was something about Eddie, something bright and sharp and special that did not deserve to simply be snuffed out by somewhere as suffocating as Derry. Yet he’d still wanted to keep Eddie to himself because maybe it was only him that could appreciate Eddie properly. It was jealous and selfish and evidently wrong. 

Really, he thinks there is a list of things he would have asked Eddie by now if he felt he knew the right words to use. He knew it would have to be words that actually belonged to him, rather than a character he’d constructed to fit the moment. It worked on their friends well enough, Richie thought. (Or he hoped anyway, Stan would look at him sideways for just a little too long sometimes but it was  _ Stan _ . Stan was too smart for his own good.) 

Richie would sit there and listen to Eddie talk about his new friends and his exams and his shitty job at 7-Eleven and choke down the feeling that he was missing out on it all. He had his own friends too, outside of the losers but he could have hundreds of friends and they still wouldn’t be Eddie. So he’d sit and listen and only pepper in enough half-hearted jabs to not raise any questions. 

It fucking sucked. 

Richie would sit there and choke down the questions he wanted to ask, the jokes he actually wanted to make and - hardest of all - the unshakable desire to be one of the people Eddie in Eddie’s stories. He missed him, it was undeniable. It’s been years of this and Richie still doesn’t know how to miss Eddie without feeling like it was eventually going to kill him. Maybe it would eat away at him from the inside out until there was nothing left to miss him with. Maybe he thought about it too much. 

It was unfair to Richie because every time Eddie would make eye contact- even if it was fleeting, the way it always was now - with him he’d feel just as disarmed as he had when they were younger and as if Eddie could tell exactly what was going on in his head. He’d never had the same talent. 

Eddie would look away so quickly, avert his focus almost comically to anything that wasn’t him. To Richie, whether it was true or not, it felt as if Eddie knew perfectly well how Richie felt and he chose to do nothing. Maybe because he wanted Eddie to know; wanted Eddie to pull him aside and ask him what the fuck was up with him? Scream at him until they were both crying? Richie didn’t know what he wanted really, he never had when it came to Eddie. It was confusing and frustrating but he knew he wanted something. 

But Eddie was here now and he wasn’t going to do any of that shit. 

Richie could hear him padding around in Stan’s room (probably in socks, he’d always slept in socks. Weirdo) presumably getting ready for bed. They hadn’t spoken over dinner. Well, technically they’d exchanged niceties, but what the fuck did that count for? Exactly nothing when Richie used to fall asleep smelling Eddie’s apple shampoo and sending himself half-insane weighing up the consequences of pressing a kiss to the top of his head and trying to explain away why he so badly wanted to. All he’d know is that he felt safe. 

He’s almost tempted to get up and ask Eddie what he thinks about the apartment. This place where Richie lives. This place where he dances in the kitchen with stan to Hall & Oates and naps on the couch after work and used to make late-night phone calls to the girl in his theatre class he’d taken on a handful of dates where all he could think about is how much he didn’t want to kiss her. Sandy was beautiful and talented, God could she make Richie laugh and he liked her a lot. But he couldn’t imagine liking her any more than he already did and that hadn’t sat right with him. He’d told her as much and they’d reverted quickly back to the simple relationship of people who automatically assumed they'd partner up for paired activities. It hadn’t even hurt. 

He’d expected it hurt at least a little. Stan had expected it to hurt a lot. He’d rented like 10 of the shitty movies they watched just to make fun of and called in sick after Richie had offhandedly mentioned what had happened; interpreting Richie’s dismissiveness as hiding how he really felt or whatever. He’d felt bad about it - they were college students in New York City, Stan couldn’t afford to miss shifts for frankly stupid shit like this - but he’d let it happen. Letting Stan make him laugh was distracting enough for him to not think too hard about how he didn't want to kiss Sandy even with how pretty she’d looked dancing on the lawn at the after-party for the theatre department’s production of Little Shop of Horrors. Even positively buzzing from a cocktail of general performance jitters, post-performance elation and shitty beer, Richie hadn’t wanted to do anything more than join her in her slightly clumsy routine to _Baby-Baby-Baby._

Richie throws off his duvet and gets up; he needs a glass of water. 

**Author's Note:**

> please let me know what you think (if you'd like to!!) and come say hi on twitter if you are so inclined! i'm @deadrockshow


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